


Perceptions

by Talithax



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: Angst, Doubt, Established Relationship, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV First Person, Rape Aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 20:26:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/pseuds/Talithax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The same 'story' from both sides.</p>
<p>Or...  What happens when fear of the unknown causes both parties to remain silent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perceptions

**Author's Note:**

> ~ Narrated by both Will & Ethan. One 'section' each, clearly separated.  
> ~ Self-beta'd.  
> ~ Quite... angst-heavy. So, be warned. (But... Don't give up! Seriously, it gets better...)

=========  
Perceptions  
by TalithaX  
=========

 

~ Will ~

 

I'm. Fine.

My two default, go-to words to answer...

Well.

Just about everything. 

Solely in the name of politeness I'll occasionally throw in a 'thank you' or a 'no, really', but... if I'm feeling put on the spot or just want to end the exchange as quickly as I possibly can, it's always just...

“I'm fine.”

“How are you?” - “I'm fine.”

“Did you sleep okay?” - “Fine.”

“Would you like more coffee?” - “I'm fine, thank you.”

“Are you sure you're okay?” - “I'm fine, thank you. No, really... I'm fine.”

“I'm here if you want to talk about... uh... anything.” - “I'm fine.”

“Is there anything I can get you?” - “I'm fine, thank you.”

“How are you holding up?” - “Fine.”

If I really concentrate and don't allow myself to stray from the path of all-important logic, there are – albeit few and far between – times when I even actually believe it.

I'm fine.

Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be? What happened, happened. I can't change it any more than I can deny it, but... So what? It's in the past and I'm still here. I'm alive, in one, fully-functioning piece, and...

These things happen.

They shouldn't. They really, really shouldn't. But... They do.

It's as much a risk as being captured, tortured, or dying during a mission is.

It's just... One of those things. A risk, pretty much like all of the risks to life and limb you've decided to accept as a given in your chosen line of work, to be buried deep in the back of your mind and ignored. I even, having both attended the many courses held throughout my time at IMF and been diligent enough to read the handouts, understand the cold, hard logic behind it.

Power.

It's about power and breaking through the victim's defences in a way a beating, regardless of how brutal and focussed it was, never could. It's also about laying them, both figuratively and literally, bare and stripping them of...

Everything.

Control. Dignity. Sense of worth.

Sure. A beating can hurt. Hell, it can even result in death. And torture, be it in search of answers or simply for sick, perverted amusement, definitely can't be overlooked as an effective way of lording your superiority over someone either. For the purposes of sheer debasement and repulsion though, and for really making your victim know just how little you happen to think of them, you can't go past rape. 

You just can't.

Pain and degradation in one, possibly even pleasurable to you, package.

What more could you possibly want? 

It's abhorrent to me, of course it is, but that doesn't stop it from making sense.

Palmer reacted the way that he did because... he had to make an example out of me. I get that. Again, of course I do. He'd accepted me into the upper-echelon of his arms trafficking organisation and when, courtesy of a very highly paid mole in IMF informing him that I wasn't who he thought I was, he discovered that I'd been playing him it was only... natural... that he'd make his displeasure known. He hadn't, after all, made it to the top of the tree in his field of underground expertise by just turning a blind eye to the interference of law enforcement agencies and dutifully giving up.

He could have killed me. Given the volumes of information we have on him, it's not as though he hadn't murdered those that had got too close to him before. A few years back he even tossed a FBI agent that had got too close to his operation from a helicopter so that the man's body landed on the roof of one of the buildings at Quantico. So, you know, simply putting a bullet in my head and dumping my corpse on the steps of HQ certainly wouldn't have been outside what, for Palmer, could have been classed as fairly normal behavior. 

But, no.

For reasons I suspect I'll never know, he decided to not only throw me to his entourage of hired muscle but to also issue forth with the directive that, while I was theirs to use however they saw fit, they weren't to kill me and that, when they'd finished, I was to be left some place where I could easily be found by the rest of my team.

Like, tied, naked and unconscious, to a pillar in an abandoned warehouse that Palmer was known to have links to, and where it was pretty safe to assume they'd look once they realised I'd missed my scheduled check in.

Again, I comprehend... why... it happened. 

My cover was blown, Palmer wanted to send a very clear – 'this is what happens when you fuck with me' – message to IMF that he hadn't appreciated their unwanted inference in his highly lucrative business, and... the hired muscle did what they did because, for one, it was expected of them by their boss, and for two, hey, it was on offer.

I wasn't, and God knows they made a point of making sure I was aware of this, their first choice of a... gift... but, despite their homophobic and insulting rants, they still dutifully... performed... as ordered, and...

I get it.

I get why Palmer went down that particular route. I get why the men did it and why they felt compelled to go for a chorus of verbal abuse – 'Suck it, bitch.' 'You're loving this, aren't you, faggot.' – to go hand in hand with the physical abuse.

I get it... all.

And... I'm fine with it.

Not, it goes without saying, the event itself, but the logic behind it as, granted in a completely offensive way, it makes sense to me. I can go over everything in my head and see that, yes, it really was just one of those unfortunate things. Wrong place, wrong time. It wasn't so much personal as it was a means to make a very graphic point. It wasn't, especially as the leak came completely out of left field and was just about the last thing any of us had been expecting, my fault as there wasn't anything I could have done to either see it coming or stop it, and...

I'm still here.

I survived.

Even if it was only as a result of Palmer's direct say so, I lived to tell the tale, and...

I'm fine.

In terms of physical injuries I've been hurt far worse and required far lengthier hospital stays before and, contrary to what the well meaning, but really rather stupid psychiatrist seems intent on wanting me to believe, I still feel as confident of my sexuality as I did ten days ago. Not having come down in the last shower – and in keeping with my far reaching overview of dissecting every single aspect connected to what happened – I understand perfectly how a straight man may question his sexuality after having been the victim of rape. The body being capable of acting in direct odds to the wishes of the mind, neither erections nor climaxes can be fully controlled and, despite your every fibre fighting against the assault it's still quite common for your body to give the impression that, why, yes, you... are... enjoying it.

And, yes. I speak from experience.

Again, it happened and, because I understand... why... it happened, I'm fine with it as, really, it wasn't something I had any say in. Like the assault itself, I couldn't stop my body from reacting the way it did and know that there's not a damn thing to be achieved by dwelling on it. I didn't like it, and I'd only be lying if I tried to pretend there wasn't a degree of shame and disgust attached to what, in a way, can be viewed as being betrayed by my own body, but...

It not only happened, but I understand why it happened.

If I was both straight and not as well informed as I've always prided myself on being, the psychiatrist and his one-track insistence that it didn't change anything and that I was still as heterosexual as I'd 'always' been would probably be of some reassurance to me. As, however, I'm actually quite used – entirely different circumstances and willingness notwithstanding – to welcoming another man's cock into my body and know why it is my body reacted the way it did, the psychiatrist and his well-meaning-yet-completely-fucking-misguided spiel is one of the things...

… I'm not fine with. 

In fact, it's actually something that really quite annoys me.

If I can think things through clearly and apply logic to what happened, why can't he look outside his narrow purview of reassuring me of my non-existent heterosexuality and just reassure me instead that things are... still going to be okay?

I'm still...

Me.

I'm still me.

I haven't changed. Not really.

I'm still...

… Alive. An IMF agent. More or less physically fit and intelligent. A friend, team mate, and... partner. 

I even, if you ignore the dark circles under my eyes, pale skin and slight weight loss, look the same as I always have.

I don't, not that I've been able to see anyway, have 'VICTIM' tattooed on my forehead and I like to think that I'm still predominantly the same man that I was before it happened.

Yes. I was raped.

Repeatedly.

And, yes, although I did my best to shut down while it was happening, I can remember every single second of it and, okay, it's true that I'm not exactly anxious to indulge in any form of sexual activity for, well, the foreseeable future.

But...

If I've made my peace with it, why can't everyone else? It's not, let's face it, as though my own... misfortune... should make any impact on their lives whatsoever. 

So...

Why do they all have to treat me... differently?

Like I'm...

… Fragile. A freak. Someone to be avoided. An insult to IMF agents everywhere. A failure. An embarrassment. Someone to be pitied. Cause for either disbelief or disgust. A liability. So Goddamn useless that I must have asked for it. Wasting both my time and the psychiatrist's because there's no way I'm cut out to be a field agent and should just – once again – retreat back to the Analysts Section with my tail between my legs. Dragging Ethan down. Pathetic.

My constant – very-much relied upon – companion, logic is capable of justifying most of it, but, I don't know, for some reason in this instance it just doesn't help. 

People that I once considered friends avoid me because they either don't know the right thing to say or are simply too afraid of saying the wrong thing that they simply find it safer to not even try. Many tech experts, clerical staff and analysts holding the well accepted, if not exactly based in fact, belief that field agents hold themselves up on a pedestal and believe themselves to be better than those based in the far safer confines of headquarters, the fact that I've... fallen... so far from my 'lofty heights' is cause for general, self righteous satisfaction and – quite contemptuous – amusement. By... allowing... it, be it through a failed arrogance in my own abilities or just incompetence, I've proven that field agents are little more than human after all and, as such, deserve their smug sideways glances and derision. As for my fellow agents, I'm the walking proof of that which they all make a very dedicated point of not contemplating. They look, through downcast eyes and quick, surreptitious glances over their shoulders, at me and they see the inescapable proof that it's... not just a threat cooked up by those wanting to waste our time in training courses and is, in fact, both very, very real and a valid, not to be glossed over, threat. By walking amongst them I've made it... real. Perhaps even... too... real and, for that reason, I'm best left to my own devices in case, God forbid, I want to talk about my experience or, worse, lecture them on it being something they can't just bury their head in the sand about and have to actually be aware of it.

Even my team don't know how to act around me.

Benji, who I once thought didn't know how to shut up and who could most likely talk under water if the need ever arose, is so terrified of inadvertently offending me that, for the first time since I met him, he's reduced to just making polite, meaningless small talk whenever he finds himself in my company. It's awkward, for both of us, and to be perfectly honest I don't know which one of us hates it more. Then there's Jane, who just happens to be so frustrated at her inability to – wave a magic wand and make it all go away – do anything to help me that, like Benji, she's wary of even trying. They both, possibly at Ethan's insistence, still meet the pair of us for lunch every day, but it's far from the same. Benji's scarily silent, Jane just looks depressed, I default to pretty much answering everything with my favourite 'I'm fine' line, and Ethan, poor Ethan, tries his hardest to both fill the silence and behave like we used to, and...

Yet again, it's awkward. Uncomfortable, even. 

And I hate it.

I hate the aftermath as much, if not even more, than the actual assault itself. 

The event itself only took just over two very tedious – not to mention, extremely repetitive – hours, but this, the feeling as though I'm disconnected from both those I care about and everything I once took for granted, strikes me as being without end.

My friends don't know what to say to me, acquaintances – if they're not actively avoiding me, that is – stare at me with either reproach, curiosity, pity or disgust, my psychiatrist seems obsessed with convincing me that I'm 'still' perfectly straight, and my... if you'll excuse the somewhat, all things considered, ironic use of the term... lover just doesn't know what to do.

Period.

He doesn't know what to do... with me. He doesn't know what to do... around me. He doesn't even know what to do... with himself.

And...

It's not right.

Ethan, he's...

Here now. Just as he's pretty much been ever since I was discharged from my brief, two night stay in the infirmary. If I'm awake, not in the bathroom or mentally banging my head against the idiot psychiatrist or staring blankly at the doctor as he checks me over and repeats for the umpteenth time the possible side effects of the antivirals I'm on, Ethan's just... There. A constant, predominantly silent and awkward presence that, in all honesty, may as well as be a complete stranger to me. He drives me to appointments, patiently puts up with my parrot-like repeating of 'I'm fine' without once snapping and putting me on the spot by insisting that I prove it, makes sure that I eat, walks by my side and defiantly meets the gazes of all of those that I can't and, always wanting to do what little he can to make me comfortable, even went so far tonight as to tentatively drape a blanket over my lap as I sit here, curled up and vacant, on the sofa.

He's... here for me, and I'm confident it really is what he wants and he's not just doing it out of either misplaced guilt or because he think it's simply what's expected of him, but...

It's not working.

I...

I'm not working.

It taking two to tango and all that, I know I'm as much at... fault... for the distance that currently separates us as Ethan and his fear of – the unknown – doing anything to upset my clearly overly delicate equilibrium is, but I...

I just don't know what to do about it. 

I can acknowledge that it exists, and I can both file it away as yet another aspect of my life that now appears – oh, the irony – fucked and, in my worst moments, dwell on it as cause for... considerable... concern, but what I can't do is imagine a way to do anything to actually fix it. Ethan lurks by my side, barely speaking any more than I do and never touching me in case, I don't know, I might shatter once and for all, because it's where and, again, of this I really am confident, he wants to be. I never asked him to stay and babysit me, yet, although I'm grateful for his strange, spectre-like – as in, while he may look like Ethan, he's not really the naturally self-assured and, in turn, reassuring Ethan that I've for so long taken for granted – presence in my life, it...

It's not helping.

In fact, it may even be making things worse.

My lover doesn't know how to react around me, so...

How am I supposed to know what it is I need to be doing to... make all of this just go away? I don't mean the assault, the Goddamn catalyst for this increasingly fucked state of affairs as that, quite literally, is in the past. It's over. History. I'll never get those hours of my life back again and, okay, fine, I'm not blinkered enough to just blithely declare that they haven't changed me in ways I know I'm not even fully aware of yet, but... It happened.

Shit happens.

Above everything else, I'm a realist. 

A wary, if not terrified realist that this, Ethan's distance and the empty feeling that I swear has taken up permanent residence in my stomach, is now simply going to be how it is.

Ethan, who I've never known to... feel... let alone actually show fear, is scared of doing anything to inadvertently set me off and, too afraid of him breaking the habit of a lifetime and waving the white flag of defeat by just giving up and leaving me, I'm too afraid to speak up in case it causes what little we have left between us to just disintegrate once and for all.

Just...

What if I were to raise the courage to mention to him that if I could have anything in the world it would be for him to put his arms around me, and... he couldn't do it? He couldn't bring himself to hug me because, just as I'm struggling to see the Ethan I know and love in his awkwardness and tentative dealings with me, all he actually sees when he looks at me is the dirty, stained mess he found in the warehouse, and...

And it disgusts him?

I'm not saying that I really think it's the case at all, but... What if I laid myself bare and caused Ethan's mask of stoicism to dissolve in to cold fact? What if it is just guilt that's keeping him with me? It was, after all, his call to send me after Palmer. God knows I don't, could never – it's what we do, what I'm trained to do, the mole took everyone by surprise, it could just as easily have been Ethan or Benji, yet again these things just unfortunately happen – blame him and don't want him to think for so much as a second that any of this is his fault, but... Who knows. Maybe it is misguided guilt. Or perhaps he's just hanging around until I'm cleared for duty again before, assuming that I'll be able to take it better if I'm confident of my health and ability to be back out in the field, letting me down gently by telling me that it's over and that I'd probably be better off looking for a new team.

Maybe he even thinks I should have ran faster or fought harder and that, as my skills clearly aren't up to scratch and I'm a liability to the team, he's just trying to find the right time to tell me.

I let them.

I'm a failure.

I'm useless and a complete and utter failure as both an agent and a man and the only reason he stays with me is out of a sense of duty... if not a vague fear that, seeing as I'm so inept, I'll only disappoint him further by most likely slitting my own wrists if I'm not kept under constant surveillance. 

Just...

What if I confess that I'd give anything for him to just hug me and whisper in my ear that everything's going to be okay and, regardless of his reasons, he refused?

I just...

I couldn't take it.

So... I do nothing. I issue forth with my fucking pointless 'I'm fines', and I let him hover around me and sleep in my guest room without comment because, at the end of the day, I'm paralysed with fear at the thought of things actually deteriorating any further. At least this way he's still with me. Even if it is, in a sense, a false economy and merely delaying the inevitable, as long as Ethan's with me I can keep trying to find the strength to move forward. Things aren't great, in fact they're far from great and I'm not exaggerating when I say that there's not a thing on this planet that would make me happier than Ethan taking me in his arms like he once used to, but they're... tolerable. 

He's here, and, as I know I'd only be even more lost than I already am if he wasn't, I'll take it.

We mightn't talk or touch, and for the first time since... I-knew-that-he-knew-about-Croatia... I mightn't know what to say, or even how to act around him and, okay, I might feel as though I'm either trapped or completely losing the plot – or both – but, and I don't even care if I'm clutching at straws here, it's still better than nothing. Regardless of his reasons or whether he's just biding his time to let me down gently when he thinks I'm finally up to it, Ethan hasn't fully given up on me yet and, again, despite my massive lack of being able to show it, I'm grateful to him for just being here. 

If I'm lucky, or if miracles are indeed proven to happen, I might even be able to find a way to share this with him before it's too late and, the damage having already been done, we can't find our way back to what it was we used to have.

And that, really, doesn't even bear thinking about.

Choking back a sigh, I tear my gaze away from whatever the fuck it is I've been industriously ignoring on the television for the past hour or so and sneak a glance at Ethan. Sitting in the armchair to my right and staring listlessly down at his iPad, he looks tired and I can't help but wonder why exactly this would be. Let's face it, the role of babysitter, self-imposed though it may be, is hardly an onerous one and there's no physical reason at least for him to be looking so exhausted. The sleeping pills, which for the first time in my life I'm resorting to without hesitation because they're the only thing standing between me and the hideous, all too realistic nightmares, keep me in bed until after nine and while, yes, he's up before me and has breakfast waiting on the table, there's nothing to stop him from staying in bed for as long as he wants to. Then, let's not forget the non-stop excitement of life being such that – take right now for example and the way we're almost comatose in the living room, Ethan feigning fascination with whatever he's got on the screen of his tablet while I feign fascination with whatever it is droning away on the television set – there's usually nothing in particular to want to stay up for anyway and we're both in our separate beds well before ten. So, you know, it's not as though there's any reason for him to be getting any less sleep than I am. That, and mooching around HQ while I waste my time with the psychiatrist before breaking up the day with lunch before one last spot of aimless mooching before returning home and dithering over coming up with a meal that I doubt he wants to eat any more than I do isn't exactly what I'd call strenuous.

In other words, there's simply no reason for him to be looking as tired as he does.

No reason, that is, other than without even trying I'm dragging him down to my level and he can't fight it any more than I can.

And, as with just about everything at the moment, it's wrong.

Too caught up in my going absolutely fucking nowhere thoughts to be conscious of the fact I've only swapped my staring vacantly at the television for staring vacantly at Ethan, I'm too slow to realise that he's looked up from his iPad and is gazing across at me until it's too late and – for the first time in far too long – our eyes actually meet for all of a split second. Both startled and very much feeling as though I've just been caught doing something I – have no right to – shouldn't be doing, I quickly drop my gaze and quite literally hold my breath as I wait for the moment to pass. It's ridiculous, I know that as much as I fucking hate it, but just catching Ethan's gaze is enough to make me feel both breathless and light headed. In fact, it's almost enough to make feel as though I'm in danger of succumbing to a panic attack.

Hell. It's not just ridiculous, it's pathetic, if not downright delusional.

I mean, it's Ethan, for Christ's sake.

Even if he is only sticking by my side because he thinks he has to, he's not going to... hurt me, or... force me to do anything that I don't want to, and...

I'm being pathetic.

So Goddamn pathetic that it's not funny.

As I'm sure it would have been kinder for all concerned, Palmer's men should have just put me out of my misery and finished me off. What they did was awful, and I wouldn't even wish it on my worst enemy, but this, the damn void I find myself trapped in, is far, far worse. At least the assault, even if it had been in death, was always going to have an end point, while this, however, just stretches out indefinitely before me.

Sighing, Ethan places his iPad on the arm of the chair before standing up and beginning to make his way over to the door. “I thought I might make myself a coffee,” he murmurs in a dull, neutral – 'mustn't do anything to upset the crazy person' – tone as he pauses in the doorway and glances over at me. “Can I get you anything while I'm up?”

“No, thank you,” I reply automatically as, still perfectly unable to look at Ethan, I gaze down at the blanket covering my knees. “I'm...”

“Fine,” Ethan finishes with another, far louder this time, sigh. “I... Fuck! I don't even know why I asked.”

“I...” Taken aback by the abruptness, if not... emotion... of Ethan's response, I jerk my head around to stare, open mouthed at him, but it's too late and he's already disappeared from the room. Alone, and feeling even more breathless than I did a moment ago, I stare at the empty doorway and, without stopping to think about what it is I'm doing, push the blanket off my lap and get to my feet. Walking out of the room as though on autopilot and without any clear idea as to just what it is I'm hoping to achieve by this random, unexpected show of life, I walk along the corridor to the kitchen and, even if it is a case of too little, too late, make the snap decision to surprise Ethan by telling him that I've changed my mind and would actually love a cup of coffee. 

I wouldn't, but that, really, is completely beside the point. If I fake interest in letting him make me a drink, maybe he'll take it as a positive enough sign to forget his obvious... frustration... at my dead-from-the-knees-up behaviour and simply move on from it. I accept that it's not the greatest idea I've ever had, but... as it's arguably better than nothing it'll just have to do. I'll tell Ethan that I would like a coffee after all, and, what's more, I'll even hang around in the kitchen while he makes it before thanking him for it with a half smile and suggesting we take our drinks back into the living room. Again, it's far from a fantastic idea, and I can't deny that the only reason I'm even attempting it is because I didn't like seeing Ethan let it slip that he's not really in any better place than I am, but, I don't know, hopefully it will still be better than nothing.

Reaching the kitchen, I walk through the doorway with my mouth open in anticipation of putting my lame ass plan into action and...

Fuck.

Coming to an abrupt, silent stop, I stare at Ethan's back and slumped shoulders as he stares down at nothing in particular on the counter top, and I know...

I just know that this is it, that the time has finally come for something – anything – to give and that we can't, we just can't, continue like this. If I'm capable of bringing Ethan – down to my level – this far down, then...

It stops now.

If it means setting him free and sending him on his way then, seriously, so be it. Things are fucked enough without having to feel responsible for reducing Ethan to a depressed shadow who's too afraid of speaking up for fear of upsetting me and, regardless of both what it takes and where it ends, it stops now.

I can't, again, I just can't, do this to him.

I can't keep pushing him aside and I can't expect him to keep trying when I never give him any reason to think it's worth his while.

I just...

I just don't know where, or even how, to start.

“I feel as though I've got no right to be saying this,” Ethan murmurs with a sigh as – taking the lead like he always does and which, as always, I've incredibly grateful for – he continues gazing down at the counter top in preference to actually having to look at me, “but, I... I really hope you're telling the truth when you say that you're fine because... because I'm not, I'm...” His voice breaking, Ethan clenches his fingers tightly around the bench. “I'm really not...”

“I...” Falling silently as I suddenly know just what it is that I have to do, I walk up behind Ethan and, sliding my arms around his waist, press my chest against his back and hug him tightly. I mightn't be able to fix things but what I can do is something that I probably should have done days ago, and that's start the ball rolling by coming clean with the truth. “While this probably won't come as much of a surprise to you,” I whisper, resting my cheek against Ethan's shoulder and loving how he instinctively straightens up in order to place his hands warmly over mine, “I... I'm really not fine at all. I... I want to be, but I... I'm not... I'm not fine.”

~*~

~ Ethan ~

 

I'm. Not. Fine.

I knew it. Of course I did. Sure, I might have been throwing everything I had into – burying my head in the sand – ignoring it, but...

I don't know.

Both hearing it and having it confirmed just makes it... worse... somehow. While Will was keeping his side of the charade up I could just reinforce my blinkers and push on. It wasn't ideal, and, again, of course I knew deep down that I was only – delaying the inevitable – wasting my time, but what it lacked in possessing an actual... point... it made up for by being... easy. 

It was just easy to quash all my concerns and misgivings and to take Will's bland, robot-like responses of being 'fine' at face value. He wasn't, and even a passing stranger who'd never laid eyes on him before would have had their doubts about either his health or mental state when they saw how pale and hollow eyed he looks, but letting him live his lie and keeping my mouth shut was, or so I've been busily convincing myself, the lesser of two evils. Just... let sleeping dogs lie and all that. If he wanted to pretend that everything was fine then, hey, who was I to argue? He was, after all, alive and still with me and that was enough. Battered, bruised, and changed in ways that I still can't bring myself to imagine, but still here.

And that, or so I've been so desperately trying to tell myself, was enough. Just... Nothing else had to matter. He'd survived, was, in the most basic sense anyway, still in one piece and, most importantly of all, he was still by my side. 

It mightn't have been ideal, but God alone knows it was better than the alternative. So long as we avoided the proverbial elephant in the room and went about our dull, lifeless business, we'd be – as Will was so fond of saying and I was so focussed on believing – fine.

I...

… Hated it.

I hated every single fucking aspect of it.

I hated...

… Palmer. For being sick and perverted enough to decide... that... was the best way to... stick it up IMF.

… Palmer's trained monkeys for both dutifully doing as their bastard of a master told them and for what they put Will through.

… Myself.

More than anything, I hated myself.

I hated myself for...

… Not being able to do anything. Nothing. Not a damn fucking thing I couldn't protect him, I couldn't stop it, and, hell, it wasn't even as though I had it in me to do anything to successfully pick up the pieces.

… Not knowing what to say or do.

… Failing. As a team leader, lover, and even as any sort of caring human being.

… Feeling so useless. Helpless, even.

… Hiding behind, if not actively reinforcing the charade of normalcy, because I was too damn afraid of doing anything to upset the fragile balance.

… Letting Will, my lover, best friend, and the person who means the most to me in this entire fucked up world, down. Not being one to do things by halves, I didn't just let him down in a professional sense, but I also failed him personally as well.

… Not having anything to offer him. No words of advice or even comfort.

… Being afraid of him. Afraid of saying the wrong thing, afraid of looking into his eyes and seeing the pain and uncertainty in them, afraid of perhaps losing him for good.

It's ridiculous, and I don't even like thinking it because it's not as though anything actually happened to me, but in my own way the world I've been inhabiting hasn't been all that much brighter than Will's. Since Palmer's men did what they did to him, nothing's been the same. It's only been ten days but it feels like much, much longer. Feeling as though we have to constantly watch what we say, we don't talk, not freely, anyway, and despite all the time we spend in each other's company, we may as well be two strangers forced to form some semblance of a life together. We don't... smile or laugh, and we certainly don't touch. Everything that not so long ago we took for granted just seems beyond our limited capabilities. 

I hover around him, making sure he eats and makes it to appointments, yet, while there honestly isn't anywhere else I'd rather be, I detest it. It's not... natural. Not in the way it was less than a fortnight ago and not in a way that offers any incentive for going on. Not, however, that I was ever going to give up. If Will was going to remain trapped by either apathy or his inner demons then I was going to remain by his side. Again, it's the only place I could be, the only place I'd... want... to be. It might have sucked. It might even have been doing both of us more harm than good, but I no more could have abandoned him to return to – life – the field than I could have flapped my arms and flown. 

Couldn't do anything to help him, but nor could I – ever – leave him.

I don't know what I was expecting to happen, or even what I was hoping for, but I was always, and of this there was never any doubt, in for the long haul. Even if it meant we ultimately lost the plot together and Jane and Benji had make the call to have us admitted to IMF's plush retirement home, the one no one ever talks about and which we all pretend doesn't exist, I was never going to give up. Admittedly, with my blinkered, head in the sand routine, I was probably doing a damn good job of giving an impression to the contrary, but... it was just my way of coping.

Coping badly, as the case may be, but that's what it was.

I accepted Will's declarations of being fine, just as I always made a point of knowing where he was at all times, because it was all that I felt I... could... do.

And, at the end of each very long and very hard day, it was better than nothing.

For no other reason than it would make me seem as though I'd finally grown a pair and decided to fight for both the man and the life that I love instead of just passively sitting back and feeling them shift ever further out of my reach, I wish that I could say that I'd deliberately decided to... make a stand... and that what appears to be happening now is simply a sign of my carefully planned and orchestrated success. It would, after all, have to sound better than the fact I just opened my mouth and issued forth with the first thing to pop into it. Instead of planning it, I just... didn't think. First in the living room, and now, not satisfied with having my foot in it once, in the kitchen.

I...

I didn't mean anything by either response. I don't even know why I snapped at Will for his default – 'I'm fine' – response for not wanting a coffee. It wasn't, let's face it, as though I'd been expecting him to enthusiastically take me up on my offer and had really only asked out of politeness. Snap, I did though and, not content with having inadvertently challenged the fragile peace once, I then had to go and...

Speak the truth.

Again, I don't even know where it came from.

Today hadn't been any worse than yesterday. Will hadn't given any indication of being any more miserable than he'd been earlier in the week. I didn't feel any different than I did when I woke up this morning.

So...

I don't know why I said it, why, without warning, I had to go and confess to Will that, really, I... I wasn't fine.

I wasn't fine at all.

It... just... slipped out, though. I didn't think, I didn't plan and I didn't hope. All I did was open my mouth.

Yet...

Here we are.

Will, instead of ignoring my – random – outburst, decided to take it upon himself to follow me into the kitchen, and I, instead of ignoring his silent presence in the doorway, decided to, well, give up and come clean. It just... happened.

And Will, instead of turning around and retreating, decided to not only reply in kind but to also – do just about the last thing I ever would have expected him to – walk up behind me and wrap his arms tightly around my back.

And...

With no hint of exaggeration whatsoever, it's honestly nothing short of amazing.

We haven't embraced since that morning ten days ago and, having very much learnt my lesson in the warehouse, I haven't even touched him since – emboldened by the fact he was unconscious and thus unable to either cringe or gaze at me with mute horror – I held his hand in the hospital nine days ago. I've wanted to, God knows I've wanted to – hold him and never let him go – but, again, the unfamiliar sense of fear and apprehension always held me back. If he didn't want my touch and looked at me like... that... again, I... I just don't know what I would have done. Having it happen once was bad enough as it was without putting myself in the position of having it happen again.

But...

Here we are.

I opened my mouth without thinking and Will, who never does anything without having first thought it through first, decided to not only run with it, but to also make the first, all-important, physical move.

And it really is amazing. I may not know what exactly it is I'm meant to do next, but what I do know with complete confidence is that I'm going to both fight and do whatever it takes to see what's coming through. We've... lied, feigned complacency, and skirted around the issue for too long and, now that the wall's finally showing signs of coming down, we have to work on pressing forever forward. I'm not deluded enough to want to draw a line in the sand and declare that it all comes to a neat and satisfactory end tonight, because sadly there's simply no way that it can, but what I can do is seize the moment and just ride it to wherever it might be about to take us. I doubt it will be easy, but, having done easy with nothing to show for it, I'm now – hopefully better late than never – ready to fight.

“I... I'm sorry...”

The sound of Will's voice, even though it's both mumbled into my back and barely above that of a whisper, grounding me back in the here and now of reality, I press my hands down a little harder against his and murmur, “Sorry? Come on, Will, you've got nothing to be sorry about...”

“I... I do,” he replies in a quiet, faltering voice. “I'm sorry for... failing. I... I failed as an agent and I failed... I even failed as a man...”

Reluctantly accepting that there's nothing to be achieved by simply giving up and howling at the unfairness of it all, I push slightly back from the bench and, although I know it comes with its own set of risks, spin around in order to take – the upper hand – Will in my arms. It's a risk because it means we've swapped positions and I'm now the one doing the embracing – which, in turn, means he could feel either trapped or at a disadvantage – but it's one I'm prepared to take. If he stiffens, or so much as takes a sharp intake of breath, I'll back away and immediately berate myself for having made the wrong move, but...

Really, what other move do I have?

I have to do everything I can to get through to him and if manning up and taking him in my arms is what it takes, then so be it.

“Hey... Shhh... You haven't failed at anything,” I state both as firmly and as calmly as I can manage as Will, to my great relief, puts up no resistance to my embrace and slumps willingly against me. “Just... Please... You're not to ever think that. What happened, it... it wasn't your fault.”

“I...” Falling silent, Will slides his arms around my waist and, all the time keeping his gaze averted, rests his head against my shoulder. “I've missed this,” he whispers, changing tack slightly as he tightens his arms around me. “In fact... this... This is all that I've been wanting...”

This.

As in... Being hugged.

All he wanted was to be – treated normally – hugged, and all I wanted to do was protect myself from making the wrong move and having him look at me again like he did in the warehouse.

Fearful. Horrified. Resigned. Disgusted.

I thought I was doing the right thing by both of us. I thought that by not making any moves to touch him I was both respecting Will's need for personal space and not putting any undue pressure on him. I also honestly thought that it would have been what he wanted, that, after the warehouse, the last thing he wanted was to be touched by anyone.

If I'd known...

If I hadn't been held captive by my memories of the warehouse...

If only we'd both raised the courage to speak up earlier.

“Oh God,” I groan as, instinct trampling all over caution, I lean forward and plant a soft kiss on the top of Will's head. “I don't want this to be all about apologies, but... Will, I... I'm so sorry. It... It's what I wanted too, but I...” Trailing off, I sigh and, only because I know that I have to, that the time for keeping quiet is in the past, add, “I was afraid of touching you because I'd convinced myself that, after the warehouse, you didn't want me to...”

“And I thought you didn't want to because I... I disgusted you,” Will murmurs with a small shrug. “It was about the only reason I could come up with and... and it was just too easy to accept. So easy, in fact, that it stopped me from... hoping... let alone feeling up to making the first move...”

Just...

Fuck.

We both had our reasons for thinking we were doing the right thing and we were both wrong.

Horribly, horribly wrong.

“You don't, hell, you could never disgust me and you've got to believe me when I say that I'm sorry, that... if I'd either known or hadn't been such a coward... I would have been all over you like a rash,” I reply hoarsely as, shifting his head, Will glances up at me and hesitantly meets my gaze. “I... I'm just sorry. I'm sorry that we had our wires crossed, and I'm sorry that it's taken us this long to... uncross... them.”

“I'm sorry too,” Will responds with a wan smile as, breathing deeply, he returns his head to my shoulder. “But... At least we know now that... That we're both as bad as each other, yeah...”

“Pretty much,” I agree, punctuating my response with another quick kiss to the top of his head. “Now... Unless there's something else you desperately want to get off your chest right this very second, how about we just make the most of both the moment and knowing that, although it's taken us long enough, we're finally on the same page...”

“Sounds good to me,” Will murmurs as, squirming slightly, he makes himself more comfortable. “You... You have no idea how good it sounds, actually...”

“Oh. Trust me. I think I do.”

There being nothing else that absolutely positively has to be said for the moment, silence descends over the kitchen as I rest my head against Will's and, luxuriating in the simple fact that I can, hug him to me as though my very life depended on it. Knowing his body as well as I do, I can tell, even through the layers of clothes that he's wearing, by feel alone that he's lost both a little weight and definition but, knowing that his physical health would have to be the least of our concerns, I don't dwell on it.

He's here, contentedly in my arms, and the light at the end of the tunnel is no longer that of an oncoming freight train and, albeit still dim and distant, has changed to being a glimmer of actual sunlight.

Minutes tick by as we lose ourselves in the simple, unexpected pleasure of embracing. The moment is as innocent as it is basic, yet I wouldn't change it for anything. Fifteen or so minutes ago I wouldn't have even thought it possible, but here we are. It mightn't be just like old times, and I know there's still a fairly good chance that things might get even worse before they get better, but it's a start. An unbelievably good one, even, and one that I suspect Will's getting as much out of as I am.

Eventually, and for no real reason other than a small part of me subscribes to the 'strike while the iron's hot' school of thought in that we can't stay like this all night and have to try to keep things moving, I pull my arm away from Will's back and gently cup his cheek in the palm of my hand. “As good as this is, and, trust me, it's good, it's very good,” I state softly, “tell me what it is you want...”

“Want?” Will echoes, frowning slightly as, still clearly happy to follow my prompts, he leans into my touch and glances up at me. “As in... Now? Tomorrow? Next week?” he continues, sounding a little confused. “Would you believe that this is the first time anyone's asked me what I want... Not... Not even that idiot psychiatrist or the Secretary himself has bothered to ask me and I... Uh... I haven't allowed myself to think about it either... It... It's just not been something I've felt up to contemplating...”

Reading between the lines of Will's response, I come to the conclusion that he probably thinks I'm referring to his future as an agent here and, not having meant that far ahead at all, shake my head. That discussion will come, as it has to, but it's also one that can wait until Will feels ready to initiate it. That, and it's one he alone knows the answer to. If, however, what Palmer's men did to him proves to be the final straw and he decides to leave field work, then it's a decision I'll not only respect but, it being the one thing I did actually reach a conclusion about during this past week, it's also one that I'll follow. IMF, and being out in the field in particular, might be in my blood, but, and the fact that it's taken something as heinous as his assault to make me realise this isn't something I care to think about, I now know that Will means more to me than my career ever could. I might not have been ready to contemplate giving up IMF while I was with Julia, but if it's what it's going to take to keep Will with me then, fine, it's a change I've made my peace with and am more than prepared to make. I don't know if it will come to that, and, because I don't want him to factor my stance into his calculations at all, I'm not even going to mention it to Will until he's already both reached his decision and made it known, but...

What will be, will be.

We either take our time to get the entire team back to the comfortable, reliable point we were all at before the last mission, or... It's all over. Even if Will decides he'd like to return to being an analyst, I'm not going back into the field with a different team and that's just that. Maybe it's selfish of me, but I've given, to the detriment of both relationships and my life in general, my all to IMF for too long and this time, if it indeed comes to it, the organisation is going to come off second best.

But, again, that's a conversation for another day.

“Now,” I reply, smiling down at Will as, possibly feeling put on the spot, he continues to frown in concentration. “While I'll admit the question was somewhat open ended and could have referred to anything, like... what you might want for your birthday or Christmas, or... even where you want to see yourself in three month's time, I'll settle for... now. Right, in fact, at this very moment. So... What do you want? Oh... And, trust me, there's no wrong answer here, so... Please. Whatever it is you'd feel as though you'd like or want, just tell me...”

“No wrong answer, huh?” Will mutters with a dry snort. “Watch it, Ethan, or I might choose to translate that to take it as a challenge.”

“You can translate it that way if that's what you really want, but, believe me, it's not a challenge,” I reply, stroking my fingers down the side of Will's face as I flash him an encouraging smile. “Nor is it a brain teaser or something that's designed to make you think too hard. Just... Off the top of your head, what, right now, would you like? And, again, it can be anything. If you tell me you want, I don't know, even if it's ice cream for example, I'll somehow make sure you get it...”

“Ice cream?” Will repeats, sounding, it just has to be said, even more confused than he did a moment ago. “Why would I want... Never mind...” Pausing, he straightens himself up and, with obvious effort and determination, looks me directly in the eye. “If you're serious about this, and... at the risk of giving you the wrong impression, what I'd like, what I... want... is for you take me to bed.” Pausing again, he drops his gaze and, blushing, stares down at the floor. “I... I haven't been able to sleep without pills and... uh... you look tired, so I... I thought... I thought maybe we could just try sleeping together, but...”

“As it sounds like a great idea to me, there's no need for buts,” I interrupt as Will's display of reverting instinctively to form by feeling the urge to justify his choice causes my smile to broaden. It's a small thing, something that most people wouldn't even recognise or pick up on, but it's so very... Will-like... that I can't help but feel an odd sense of delight that, in a sense, it's unmistakeable proof that he's definitely still in there. “So... Come along, William,” I continue, still smiling as I take his hand in mine and begin to lead him towards the door. “As I can't think of anything I'd like more and there being no time like the present and all that, how about you go upstairs and get ready while I turn everything off down here before joining you?”

“I...” Nodding, Will gives my hand a squeeze before dropping it and beginning to walk out of the kitchen. “Don't think you have...”

“I know I don't have to,” I state, once again cutting him off as, switching off the light, I follow him through the doorway before turning and heading towards the living room. “I want to, though, so... Just go and get yourself ready and I'll be with you before you even know it.”

“Do... Uh... That is...”

Not liking the soft, hesitant tone of Will's voice, I come to a stop and, turning around, find him standing at the foot of the stairs and gazing back at me with a pensive look on his pale face. “Will?” I prompt. “What's the matter? If you've changed your mind or...”

“I haven't changed my mind,” Will interrupts with a lacklustre shrug as, once again unable to hold my gaze, he looks away and hugs his arms loosely around his chest. “I... I just wondered if you wanted me to have a shower, that's all...”

“Why would I...” Stopping myself from continuing because, well, if I actually think about it for all of a split second it's a question I happen to already know the answer to, I somehow manage to – control the urge to slam a futile fist into the wall – dredge up a faint smile and mirror Will's half-hearted shrug. “If you want a shower then, have one. Don't, however, think you have to because of me.”

“But...”

“You had one when we got home a few hours ago, didn't you?”

“Yes, but...”

“Then you're already cleaner than I am, so... Do whatever you want to feel comfortable, Will, and I'll see you in the bedroom when you're ready...”

There being nothing more I can think of saying, I give another shrug and, without giving Will time to come up with a response, turn around and make my way into the living room. If he feels as though he has to have another shower because he feels... dirty... then, unfortunately, it's going to take far more time than it is just words to convince him otherwise and, for now at least, I honestly feel that it's better not to push the point. Yes, I could have continued arguing and trying to get it through to him that nothing could be further from the truth and that, again, he wasn't to ever think that way, but, really, what right have I got to tell him how he should feel? I don't know what it feels like to be raped and I don't know what it is he's going through. I can read up on it, and I can sympathise but, at the end of the day it didn't happen to me and all I can do is – again, better late than never – simply be there for him in my own, hopefully not too lacking, way. While I can counter his beliefs with my version of logic, what I can't do is either belittle them or stomp all over them because, simply put, I just don't have the right.

So...

Better to just leave well enough for the time being as I know it's not an argument I have any hope of winning and that the decision to shower or not to shower is one that's solely up to Will. I don't like it, and I can hope that he realises that he certainly doesn't have to, but... Whatever. We've come so far in such a short period of time that it's just not a point worth getting stuck on.

Although I'm not overly happy with my reasoning, I'm still nonetheless content enough with it and, entering the living room, quickly turn off the television set and the lights before meandering over to the front door and checking to see that it's locked. It, just as I fully expected it to be, is and I – pander to my own version of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder – detour via the back door to confirm that it too is locked before, satisfied that the house is secure, heading upstairs. Passing Will's bedroom en route to the guest room I've been calling my own since we returned to D.C., I glance at the closed door and hesitate over whether I should press my ear against it to see if I can hear whether the shower's running in the en suite. Accepting, however, with no small degree of both willpower and effort that it wouldn't really achieve anything even if I could hear it, I bite back a sigh and continue in to my bedroom.

Walking in to it, I turn a blind eye to – yet more proof that Will, who at heart is a bit of neat freak, isn't feeling himself – the unmade bed and piles of random items of clothing strewn all over the place and make a beeline over to the suitcase lying open on the chair by the window. Although predominantly empty as most of its contents have migrated haphazardly across the room, the case still contains what I was hoping to find in it and I quickly strip off before pulling on my last clean pair of boxers and a fresh white t-shirt. Dressed in what I hope to be suitable sleepwear, I try to ignore the tiny murmurs of doubt – 'Is this... really... a good idea? I mean, thirty minutes ago we hadn't even been talking and now you think it's perfectly acceptable to corner him in his own bed? This... Seriously, you're a fool if you honestly think this is going to end well' – and head back down the corridor to Will's room. I don't want to be having these thoughts, of course, I don't, but...

What if it is a mistake and we're moving too fast? Things have been bad enough without being accidentally responsible for causing Will to deteriorate even further. Granted, it was his idea, but, still... What if he only suggested it because he thought it was what I wanted to hear? This, after all, is Will, the man who always puts his own needs last and who would do absolutely anything for just about anyone, we're talking about. If this isn't what he wants at all and he's just putting himself through it to... placate me, then...

Fuck.

There's indecisive and being eaten alive by self-doubt, and then there's me. 

Just...

What's the worst thing that can happen, huh?

Actually...

On second thoughts, let's not go there.

Not liking the direction my thoughts are taking me in, I do my bit to quieten them by – finally – taking the direct action route and knocking softly on the door. To my great relief Will immediately calls out that I can come in and I'm still internally telling myself to get a fucking grip as I open the door and step into the room. Sitting on the edge of the neatly made bed and dressed in grey pyjama pants and a long sleeved black t-shirt that I know for a fact wasn't this loose on him last time I saw him wear it, Will looks wearily – if not warily – over at me and gives a small shrug. His entire demeanour positively screams of misery and any relief I might have felt at noting that he hadn't given in to the urge to shower swiftly deserts me at the sight of him. 

“Hey,” I murmur by way of greeting as I pull the door shut behind me and take a couple of cautious steps towards the bed. “Will? Uh...” 

“Ethan, I... I just want you to know that you don't have to be doing this,” Will states in a dull voice as he turns his head away from me and looks down at his knees, “not... not if you don't want to. I... appreciate your willingness to go along with it, but I... I'll understand if...”

“Of course I want to,” I interrupt with a small, meant to be reassuring smile as I crouch down in front of Will and, despite knowing that I could easily be skating on thin ice, lightly placing my hand on his knee. “Just... Listen to me, Will, please,” I continue, carefully watching his face as the only reaction he gives to my touch is a slight widening of his eyes. “Like in the kitchen, I probably shouldn't be saying this, but...” To hell with it. Maybe the fact I'm even thinking it might in itself mean that it's something he perhaps needs to hear? Maybe? Hopefully? “I was thinking, as I locked up, that I have absolutely no right to lecture you or to try to impress my opinions on you because, as you well know, I don't know what it is you're going through, but... I just want to say this to you and you can make of it what you will...”

“Ethan... I...”

Shaking my head, I reach up with my free hand and gently touch my finger to Will's lips. “Just... Please. Listen to me...”

Although there's no denying his obvious apprehension at having to hear just whatever it is I'm wanting to get off my chest, Will nevertheless nods his acceptance and waits patiently for me to get on with it.

“What happened... happened,” I murmur, locking my gaze on Will's, “and unfortunately there's nothing any of us can do to change it. Now... While we can't change it, what we can do is... refuse to let it change us. I'm not talking miracles or just flipping a switch and everything going back to normal, but... in a couple of months, or even a years time, what's to stop us from being close to the same we were a fortnight ago, yeah? We just have to both fight and know just what it is we're fighting for...” Pausing, I pick up Will's hand and, as he continues to stare down at me through wide eyes, give it a gentle squeeze. “Most importantly though, I want you to know that I'll not only fight for you but that also, and this is above and beyond everything else... I'm still yours, just as, I hope, you're still... mine...”

“I... Of course...” A smile that's as heartfelt as it is – a sight for sore eyes – beautiful lighting up Will's face, he slips down from the edge of the mattress and waits for me to quickly shift into a kneeling position before wrapping his arms around my back and hugging me tightly. “Of course I'm still yours,” he whispers, resting his forehead against mine as, once again hardly believing my luck, I slide my arms around his waist and hug him back. “And... You're right. Of course you're right. We just have to fight...” Trailing off, he relaxes fully into my embrace and, after softly kissing my forehead, not only looks directly into my eyes but also, with a degree of both confidence and determination that's been missing for too long, holds my gaze. “Starting now, we just have to fight...”

~ end ~


End file.
